Vorpal Blade Read online

  Tweed returned to his chair behind his desk. Newman stood up, opened the door, smiling broadly.

  'This is the way out, Nathan.'

  Morgan was trying to straighten up his trench coat as he walked towards Newman. At the open doorway he turned to fire a parting shot.

  'You'd better realize the investigation into the murder out at Bray has absolutely nothing to do with you.'

  'Goodbye,' said Tweed, studying a file without looking up.

  'Paula,' he said, closing the file when the two men had left, 'I have an appointment in an hour to meet Roman Arbogast at ACTIL headquarters in the City. He kindly agreed to see me since Adam Holgate was once on my staff. Newman will drive us there and I'd like you to come with me.'

  'Well, that should be a change from listening to that piece of rubbish you just threw out. I gather you are still investigating the case, but you look worried.'

  'After Colonel Crow's extraordinary action - snatching away the body from Saafeld - and Nathan Morgan's boorish intervention, I sense the government is anxious that Holgate's brutal killing is never solved. Which happens to coincide with the unexpected arrival of the American Vice-President Russell Straub.'

  'Surely there can't be a connection?'

  2

  'This traffic is like a logjam, and it's wet,' Newman grumbled.

  'We're nearly there,' Paula called out from the rear seat. 'Tweed, you're going to be stunned when you see the ACTIL building. It's the tallest in London - taller than the buildings in Canary Wharf. And it's built like a giant cylinder. You don't come down into this part of the City, do you? Thought not.'

  'I don't like these stone and cement canyons that hem you in. Lord knows how people work here.'

  'It would have been quicker to walk.' Newman grumbled again.

  They were inching their way forward. Beyond the pavements the solid walls of office buildings sheered up. Like a cement jungle, Tweed thought, seated beside Newman. Paula tapped him on the shoulder.

  'There it is. They call it the Cone. They say Arbogast himself drew up the plans, imported workers from Germany to get it up in record time.'

  Tweed stared at the immense cylinder perched where the street forked, a round colossus so high he couldn't see the top. There were people everywhere, hurrying along under umbrellas. More cones, an army of them as pedestrians hustled along. No wonder the word 'stress' had travelled across from America.

  'There's a big limo pulled up outside the entrance. Most helpful,' Newman grumbled again.

  Paula peered forward. A figure in a camel-hair coat had emerged from the building, stood at the top of the steps leading up to it. Slim, with dark hair, he was waving his arms about while several men in grey suits stood behind him, by his side, on the steps below.

  'That's the Vice-President,' Paula called out. 'Russell Straub in person. Always waving his arms about. He's come out of the ACTIL building.'

  'What does ACTIL stand for, if anything?' Tweed asked.

  'A is for Armaments,' Paula began. 'C is for Chemicals. T is for Technology. I for Intelligence. L for Leisure.'

  'Intelligence is what Holgate was involved with. Interesting. Leisure - don't understand that.'

  'He has a vast network of travel agents, including some in Russia.'

  'Armaments sounds sinister,' Newman remarked, tapping his fingers on the wheel. They were stationary.

  'When the Vice-President's limo gets moving it should

  help clear the jam,' Paula predicted.

  As she spoke Straub ran agilely down the steps, leapt into the rear of the limo, where a grey-suited man stood holding open the door, closing it swiftly as soon as Straub was inside. Several bodyguards climbed into the car. Newman was watching them through field glasses.

  'Those bodyguards are carrying guns. I can see the bulges under their armpits. Bet they didn't get permission. A police escort too.'

  In front of the limo a police patrol car was edging its way forward. In front of it uniformed policemen were waving people out of the way, holding up traffic to give the limo a clear run. It disappeared round one of the corners at the base of the Cone.

  'You're sure that was Straub?' Tweed asked.

  'It was,' Newman assured him. 'I've also seen him on TV and caught a good glimpse of Mastermind in my glasses.'

  'I take it that was sarcasm,' Paula suggested.

  'It most certainly was. Chap has the personality of a peacock. Wouldn't trust him an inch. Something not so nice behind the perpetual smile when cameramen are about.'

  As the traffic got moving Newman manoeuvred his Mercedes, pulled up by the kerb in front of the ACTIL building. Paula and Tweed jumped out as a uniformed doorman ran to Newman, asked him to drive a few yards further on.

  'That woman across the road, watching this building,' Paula said. 'She's so small and still. In her sixties, I'd say, and the pale green coat and dark green fur hat suit her.'

  'We get every type visiting London,' Tweed replied impatiently, then he turned round and gazed up. 'Oh, my God. It's a giant.'

  He was staring at the endless pink wall which rose above him like the side of a mountain, a round mountain. At its distant summit wisps of cloud drifted, floated away to reveal its huge cone-shaped top, bronze-coloured. He had never seen anything like it, even in New York.

  'Stunning, isn't it,' Paula replied.

  Newman had handed the keys to the doorman, asked him to park the car until they got back. Tweed and Paula mounted the wide stone steps to an outsize revolving door. Paula nudged Tweed to go first. The door revolved slowly, then stopped when Paula went forward to step in. Beyond her Tweed's glass-walled compartment continued moving and he stepped into the vast reception hall. Paula waved her hands in a gesture of surprise. A voice spoke from somewhere.

  'You may enter now, madam.'

  The door revolved again and she stepped inside. Behind her Newman, who had caught on to the trick, stood with his arms folded. He looked up at the speakphone grille above the door.

  'Don't forget me. I've got the money.'

  'You may now enter, sir,' the voice replied as Paula waited inside the hall.

  Newman waved at the camera beamed at him above the speakphone. 'Thanks a lot, old boy . . .'

  Inside he gaped at the spaciousness of the reception hall, its walls solid marble, the floor also marble. Tweed and Paula were walking over to the huge reception desk behind which an attractive red-headed girl smiled. Before she could speak a tall muscular man wearing an Armani suit appeared out of nowhere. He snapped at the receptionist.

  'I'll deal with this, Clara.'

  Below his brown hair he had a face hewn out of stone. In his thirties, he was clean-shaven with a long sharp nose, hostile eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, a prominent chin. Paula doubted whether he even knew how to smile. His expression said: Don't mess with me.

  'Mr Tweed?' he demanded. His rough accent was Midlands.

  Tweed nodded, completely unintimidated.

  'And you're Miss Grey.' He turned. 'Easy to recognize you. Robert Newman, foreign correspondent. I've read some of your articles in the past. They're dangerous.'

  'They're meant to be . . .'

  'And you have a gun under your left armpit. Leave that with the receptionist.'

  'As the Americans would say,' Newman replied amiably, 'I can see you're packing a piece yourself.'

  'I'm Broden. Chief of Security.'

  Newman went over to Clara, who had been listening gleefully. It was the first time she had heard Broden talked down. As Newman took out his Smith & Wesson, removed the bullets, she ushered him behind her desk where she had opened a metal drawer, one of many, using a master key and a second one. He placed his weaponry inside, closed the drawer, she turned both keys, handed him his own.

  'We are waiting,' Broden called out.

  'With a system like this Mr Arbogast should allow five minutes extra on his appointments,' Newman told him.

  'He does. This lift. Used only by the Chairman.'

 
; 'Park your stomach outside,' Broden told them without a trace of humour before he closed the doors. 'The lift moves up like a rocket.'

  Paula grabbed hold of one of the gold railings lining three sides of the luxurious lift. It did indeed shoot up like a rocket. Paula watched the numbers alongside one of the doors. A hundred and five floors. Lordy. The numbers flicked past so quickly it reached 105 before she realized it.

  Their destination was beyond a door facing the lift, a door which Broden unlocked, using the same computer card he had inserted in the hall to open the doors. They entered a large room occupied by four men behind desks, working IBM Selectric typewriters. No word processors, no sign of the Internet. At the far end Broden opened a heavy oak door, stood to one side.

  'That will be all, Broden. You may leave now,' a strange throaty voice rumbled.

  Newman glanced at the security chief. Was it possible his expression was even icier? Not wanted on the voyage.

  Paula almost gasped as she entered. The room, with circular walls and windows, floor to ceiling, was more like a drawing room. A deep grey wall-to-wall carpet across which were scattered plush armchairs and couches. In the spaces between windows hung gilt-framed landscapes. At the far end was a massive Regency desk and behind that, seated in a comfortable-looking carver chair, was a man.

  He was tall and plump with a very ugly head, the face plump: in his sixties, she guessed, but it was the face which she gazed at. Ice-blue eyes were half-hidden by pouches of flesh, his short nose was wide and below it thick lips twisted sideways. Below them he had a massive jowl and his expensive suit was rumpled. His right eye twitched several times as he stood slowly, waved a fat hand with short stubby fingers.

  'Welcome to my humble abode. Certain members of my family will join us. One is the key member of my staff who may one day take my place. Do sit down.' He padded round his desk to shake hands. Paula was surprised at how tall Roman Arbogast was. His shoulders were very broad and she was aware of a sense of power. No arrogance but an aura of immense determination.

  He remained standing when they had seated themselves, close to them, bulky arms folded. His head was twisted slightly to one side as he looked down.

  'Now, Mr Tweed, you are one of the few people I respect. You are a very dangerous man. I pay you a compliment. Why have you come to see me?'

  'Adam Holgate was a member of my staff before he came here. I owe him my interest in finding out who killed him with such savagery. When I know why I shall know who.'

  'What would everyone like to drink?' Arbogast swivelled his head to include all his guests in the invitation.

  'Nothing for me, thank you,' said Paula.

  'The brilliant lady who is a natural detective. Who makes the police look like the fools they are.'

  'What do you base that on?' she asked quickly.

  'On information received. Any success I may have had in this world of idiots is based on my ability to know what is - or has been - happening, happened.'

  His voice, although quiet and throaty, carried a long way. Still standing, he switched his attention as Tweed spoke.

  'What exactly was Holgate's job here?'

  'Security. I didn't like him but Broden thought he was good. He was also nosy, very inquisitive.'

  'In what way?' Paula asked with a smile.

  'He searched through files which were nothing to do with his duties. He would hover outside open doors to listen to conversations which did not concern him. He may have found out too much. A reason why he was executed.'

  'Executed?' Paula was shocked.

  The door into the spacious room opened and two women walked in, one behind the other. Newman stared at the first woman - he couldn't help it.

  'This is Marienetta,' Arbogast announced. 'My niece.'

  She walked in with long elegant strides. She was in her early thirties, Paula thought as she studied the stunning beauty. Tall and slim, Marienetta had golden hair trimmed to just below her ears, an exceptionally well-shaped bone structure, a nose which expressed driving power, strange lips, the upper one thin, the lower full, the mouth wide. But it was the eyes which hypnotized Paula. Greenish, the irises were clear of the lids, which gave them an extraordinary penetration.

  The slightly stern look disappeared into a warm smile as she advanced on Paula, slim hand held out. She held on to Paula's hand for longer than usual.

  'Your grip suggests a strong character, Miss Grey. I have heard a lot about you. I was hoping we would meet and I am not disappointed.'

  'I'm Bob Newman.' Like Tweed he was standing up.

  'The foreign correspondent. Pushy, aren't you? Mr Tweed,' she went on, again holding out her hand. 'I am happy to meet such a distinguished man.' Her tone was sincere. 'You are one of those rare people who hide a strong intellect behind a passive manner. I sense inside you a volcano of energy.'

  'I'm still here, in case everyone has forgotten,' a voice spoke up irritably.

  'My daughter, Sophie,' introduced Arbogast.

  Sophie was also tall and slim but her hair was dark, thick, her nose snub and her forehead high. Her grey eyes were cold, the features sharp, almost aggressive. Paula had the immediate impression she had always come as number two compared with the niece. Not because Marienetta dominated her but the niece's appearance and personality would always cast a shadow over the daughter. She gave Sophie a friendly smile as Arbogast introduced his guests.

  'I saw you the moment you came into the room.' Paula assured Sophie. 'Come and sit next to me.'

  'Makes a change to be invited,' Sophie commented as she sat down.

  'We are all going to be friends, Sophie,' Marienetta said with a smile.

  She was wearing a close-fitting green dress with a gold belt round her slim waist and a pair of medium-heeled green shoes. Sophie wore a beige woollen jumper with a high neck, a pale grey pleated skirt and red high-heeled shoes. The contrast between the two women was strident, and there was no doubt who had first-rate dress sense.

  'I'm going to smoke,' Sophie said, making a statement.

  Paula saw Arbogast open his mouth, caught Marienetta's frown at her uncle. Arbogast closed his mouth without saying anything.

  'Go ahead,' Marienetta said, 'provided I have one too, please. Thanks.'

  'What,' Sophie demanded, 'were you talking about when I came in and then shut up?'

  Arbogast sat behind his desk, his eyes gazing at Sophie. She dropped her glance as he spoke, took a quick puff.

  'We were talking about murder,' Arbogast told her bluntly.

  'Nice topic.' Sophie snapped, took a deep puff. 'That means you've been gossiping about poor Adam.'

  'We have been discussing the case with Mr Tweed.'

  'Adam isn't just a case. He's a human being,' protested his daughter. 'Or was.' She frowned. 'I wonder what he felt like when someone cut off his neck.' She spoke as though it was an interesting subject. 'Must feel strange when your head is rolling away.'

  'I doubt,' Marienetta said gently, 'if you feel anything.'

  'Tweed,' Arbogast broke in, 'you came here to ask me for my impression of Holgate - Adam, that is - and I think I've told you all I can.' He opened a drawer as his guests stood up to leave. 'It's Sophie's birthday this evening so we're celebrating it at a nice restaurant, the Tree Creeper.' He stood up holding three printed and engraved cards, gave one to each of his guests. 'I would be most honoured if you would join us. And I am sure Sophie would be pleased.'

  'So long as Paula is coming.' She squeezed her hand. 'I'm going to make a speech.'

  'You may find it interesting,' Arbogast went on, staring at Tweed, his eye twitching. 'One of the guests will be Sophie's friend Black Jack Diamond.'

  They had left the spacious office when Marienetta slipped her arm inside Tweed's. She gazed at him, smiling.

  'That wasn't much fun. I insist you come and look at my studio - cubbyhole would be a better word. That's where I enjoy myself when I can get away from acting as Administrator.'

  'Administrator?
' Tweed queried.

  'That's my vague title here. Uncle wanted me to keep an eye on things and I told him I didn't want a title which restricted my powers over some of the senior personnel. Administrator could mean anything. So I can roam wherever I want to check up. Including Security.' She laughed. 'You may not be surprised to know I'm not Broden's favourite person.'

  Paula glanced back as they entered the special lift. Newman was walking with Sophie, talking, grinning, joking. As far as Paula could make out Sophie had her head down and was not saying a word.

  Marienetta pressed the button for level 103, twirling the computer card she'd used to open the doors. Paula turned to her as she made the comment. 'Your uncle doesn't seem to have taken to new modern equipment like computers. In the room you go through to reach your uncle his staff were using the old IBM Selectrics. No sign of the Internet.'

  'You're right,' Marienetta agreed and chuckled as they stepped out on to level 103. 'He knows how easy it is for rival companies to employ top hackers to break into a computer system. As for the Internet, forget it. Actually I do agree with him. Here we are, my cubbyhole.'

  'But you use computer cards instead of keys,' Paula pointed out as Marienetta used a different card to open a door.

  'He agreed to those - so did I - providing the cards are changed every evening. Which they are. Enter. Don't expect too much.'